“That did not fall in the dust under my feet, and were not forgotten, sir,” interrupted Julia.

“Thank you, dearest—­but if they should come to you, you would feel that they had not insulted you.  I avoided you, of course, and had to avoid your mother.  I would not see you, but you were ever about me, and became an inspiring power.  I burned all the sketches I had made of you, but one, and that I mislaid.”

“I found it.  I am glad you lost it, you naughty child.”

“Did you?  Well, I went through the winter and spring, and the awful calamity of Henry’s death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore away, and although I might not see you, your absence made Newbury a desert.  And I felt it, when you came back.  And when I got ready to go I could not.  I set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered.  I even went one night past your father’s house, only to see where you were, and yet I lingered; I found flowers on my brother’s grave, and thought that some maiden loved him.”

“When she loved you.”

“That Wednesday night I would go, but couldn’t.”

“Tell me all that happened to you that night; it is a mystery to us all; you did not even tell your mother.”

“It is not much.  I had abandoned my intention of going that night, and was restless and uneasy, when George rushed in and told me you were lost.  He had learned all that was known, and told it very clearly.  I knew of the chopping, and where the path led up to it, and I thought you would tarn back to the old road, and might enter the woods, on the other side.  Everything seemed wonderfully clear to me.  My great love kindled and aroused every faculty, and strung every nerve.  I was ready in a moment.  George brought me two immense hickory torches, that together would burn out a winter night; and with one of our sugar camp tapers.  I lighted one, as I went.  I must have reached the point where you left the old road, in ten minutes.  I was never so strong, I seemed to know that I would find you, and felt that it was for this I had staid, and blamed myself for the selfish joy I felt, that I could serve and perhaps save you.

“I examined the old road, and in one wet place, I found your track going north, and a little further was the old path, that led to the slashing.  At the entrance to it, the leaves had been disturbed, as if by footsteps; I saw many of them, and thought you had become lost, and would follow the path; so I went on.  When I reached the slashing, I knew you would not enter that, but supposed you would skirt around on the east and south side, as the path led southwesterly to it.  Of course I looked and searched the ground, and could occasionally see where a footfall had disturbed the leaves.

“I concluded that sooner or later, you would realize that you were lost; and then—­for I knew you were strong and brave—­would undertake to strike off toward home, without reference to anything; and I knew, of course, that you would then go exactly the wrong way, because you were lost.  After skirting about the slashing, I could find no foot-marks in the leaves; and I struck out southerly, and in a little thicket of young beeches and prickly ash, hanging to a thorn, I found your hood.  Oh, God! what joy and thankfulness were mine; and there in the deep leaves, going westerly, was your trail.”